Embarrassment
by Tom's Mum
Summary: The morning after the night before leads to some serious soul-searching.


The first grey light of dawn was filtering thinly through the shutters. Richard Poole opened his eyes, winced, and immediately shut them again. He did not feel at all well. He wasn't quite sure what was wrong with him, but he knew he had a pounding headache, a mouth as dry as sand and a distinct feeling of nausea. He lay unmoving for a few minutes, trying to force his rebellious brain to engage normally. An early bird began to sing in the branches of the tree that grew through the shack. On any other day he loved to listen to the full-throated warbling of the dawn chorus, but today every tweet or chirrup bore through his head like a pneumatic drill.

 _Oh God, it's marsh fever again_ was his first coherent thought. He knew these tropical diseases had a habit of recurring but so far he had been lucky. It looked as if his luck had run out now, though. He gingerly removed an arm from under the sheet and ran his hand over his forehead. Surprisingly he did not appear to have a fever. He dropped his arm back on the bed and half-opened his eyes again. Something was wrong, something was worrying him, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Suddenly it came to him: he wasn't wearing his pajama top! How had that happened? No matter how hot and humid the night, he _always_ wore his pajamas. Occasionally he daringly left the top unbuttoned, but he always wore it. How could he have forgotten to put it on? A horrible thought occurred to him; he slid his arm under the sheet to feel his stomach and legs, only to have his worst fears confirmed - he was stark naked.

A soft sigh and a slight rustle of the sheet shocked him into consciousness. He lay rigid for several minutes, hardly daring to breathe. He was not alone! He didn't want to know, but he knew he had to find out, so very, very slowly he turned his head. There was enough light now for him to discern the outline of a woman lying on her side with her back to him. He didn't need more than a quick glance to know that the woman was Camille. He had stared at that very back all through the night of the hurricane, except that on that occasion she had been wearing a lilac top. This time she was not.

Richard stared mesmerised at the satiny skin which was drawn so tightly over her back that he could see the outline of her vertebra. It was his ultimate fantasy and worst nightmare all rolled into one. He began to panic seriously. _Please God let this not be true._ How could this possibly have happened? And the worst thing was: he had clearly spent the night with the woman he tried so hard not to fantasize about but he could not remember a thing about it!

He felt sick. The drumming in his head was unbearable, but he forced himself to think. _Concentrate! What happened last night? You must remember something!_ The party at Catherine's … ah yes, there had been a party. It was the Commissioner's significant birthday and he had insisted they all join him for drinks. He hadn't much wanted to go of course, but he had really had no choice; an invitation from the Commissioner was as near as dammit a royal command. He remembered arriving, he remembered Catherine pressing a tall glass of fruit juice ("and a little something to enliven it") into his hand, he remembered talking to Fidel and Juliet, he remembered Dwayne refilling his glass once or twice … Actually it had been quite pleasant – it was a hot and humid evening and the icy cool drink was very refreshing. He seemed to recall talking to quite a few other people as well, which was not really like him, but somehow he had felt quite relaxed. Try as he might, though, he couldn't remember what had happened after they had toasted the Commissioner's health.

Well, in a way what had happened was obvious. Somehow he had ended up back at the shack with Camille and had thoroughly compromised his position as her superior officer. Despite the raging in his head he didn't need to be told that what he had done was against the rules, beyond the pale. He had taken advantage of a subordinate (even if he had no memory of it) and it would be impossible for him to continue in his present post. And somehow he was going to have to explain and to apologise to Camille. He quaked inwardly at the prospect but whatever else he was he was not a coward; humiliating and embarrassing though it would be, he would have to do it. He had no idea what her reaction would be – he rarely understood her at the best of times, and she would have every reason for anger, resentment and incomprehension. It occurred to him that she had presumably been a willing partner in their night-time antics, but for the life of him he could not decide whether that made the situation better or worse.

Feeling truly wretched, Richard inched himself out of the bed. He was desperate not to disturb Camille in his present state, as he wasn't ready to face her yet. It was still only half-light as he pulled himself to his feet with a grimace and started to look for something with which to cover his nakedness. Clothes were scattered all over the floor but he couldn't spot his pajamas. He did however find his dressing-gown hanging on its usual hook and he hugged that round him with an audible sigh of relief. Supporting himself with the wall, table, chair he edged along as silently as he could until he reached the bathroom, where he swallowed a couple of paracetamol, then sank gratefully into his favourite wicker chair and somewhat to his surprise immediately fell fast asleep.

When he next surfaced, it was broad daylight. The wicker chair was digging into his shoulders and his neck was stiff. He opened his eyes briefly, then shut them again in horror as the blazing light hit, and memory of his situation came flooding back.

"Aha, so you're finally awake. How do you feel?"

"Pretty awful. Camille, I need to …"

"Drink this. A version of prairie oyster that my mother taught me – it's good for a hangover."

"I haven't got a hangover!"

"No? Well, you surely should have, the amount of rum you drank last night!"

"I didn't! It was only fruit juice that I was drinking."

She gave a snort of laughter. "Richard, you really should know by now that there is no such thing as _only_ when it comes to my mother's concoctions. It was laced with quite a bit of rum and you drank 3 or 4 large glasses of it. I know, because I was watching you."

He groaned in despair. "You'd better tell me the worst. Did I make a complete fool of myself? Insult your mother? Assault the Commissioner?"

It was tempting, oh so tempting, but she told him the truth. "No, you were more talkative and affable than usual – in fact I have rarely seen you loosen up so much. But no, I brought you home before you had the opportunity to throw off your clothes and dance naked round the camp fire."

That brought home the urgency of his immediate situation and he tried a second time to engage with her. "Camille, I really must …"

She interrupted him ruthlessly. "If you don't drink this, Richard, I will tie you to the chair and pour it down your throat. She held out the glass. He looked at it dubiously.

"That looks like an egg."

"That's because it IS an egg. Eggs are good for hangovers."

"But it's raw. It might have salmonella."

She advanced on him purposefully. He was quite sure that she would do as she had threatened and equally sure that he was in no fit state to resist, so he screwed up his face and swallowed the witch's brew.

"All of it!" she commanded imperiously. "Then you can have some black coffee."

He was about to protest that he would prefer tea but thought better of it. The inevitable interview would be bad enough without antagonising her unnecessarily beforehand. Actually, the egg concoction wasn't at all bad – he idly wondered what she had added to it. Not that he was planning ever to need that sort of remedy again. While she was in the kitchen preparing the coffee he realised that his headache was actually quite a lot better, thanks to the pills he had taken earlier. He still felt a little shaky physically, but that was nothing compared to the mental and emotional turmoil under which he was labouring.

"Here you are". She leant over him to hand him the coffee, then perched on the chair opposite. Up to this point he had barely thrown her a glance, so great was his embarrassment, but now he suddenly became aware that she was wearing his pajama top with, he suspected, very little (if anything) underneath. _Give me strength._ He tried not to look at the endless legs nor at the unbuttoned cleavage but it was hopeless and quite honestly just at the moment he would have happily settled for being accused of no more than ogling. He sipped his coffee meditatively, gathering his resources.

"Better?"

"A little" he allowed.

"There! I told you. _Maman_ never fails with her concoctions – in olden times she would have been burned as a witch!"

"Without a doubt." He took a deep breath, unable to put it off any longer. "Camille, I … I don't know how to apologise for last night."

She was startled. "Oh?"

"Yes, … I mean, no. It was very wrong of me to take advantage of a junior member of staff – completely inappropriate behaviour – and … and … I know this makes my position on the island quite untenable and so …. and so I will be telling the Commissioner that I can no longer lead the team. I'm sure they will find a dark corner somewhere else in the world to transfer me to."

She was seriously taken aback for a few moments, then light began to dawn. She had forgotten how innately decent he was – it was one of his better features. Who else would put his career on the line for what most people would regard as a fairly minor peccadillo?

"This is all very noble and dramatic, Richard – not at all like you. Tell me, what do you think happened last night?"

He flushed scarlet. "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that, Camille" he said stiffly. "It is quite obvious that I … er … that we …"

"Yes?", she smiled sweetly. How she loved teasing him! And it was so easy to wind him up.

He glared at her angrily, furious that she was making him say this. "That we … er … spent the night together."

"Well, that seems pretty self-evident, but what do you actually remember?"

He hesitated briefly, then decided that honesty was the best policy. "I remember the party, I remember toasting the Commissioner's health, and I have a vague recollection of leaving. For the latter part of the evening – nothing" he said flatly.

"How very unflattering", she complained. "I think you must be the first man to spend the night with me and find the experience totally unmemorable."

He squirmed inwardly. This was every bit as bad as he had feared. "I'm sure it was wonderful, Camille, but … you know … the rum …"

She knew she had him on the run, but she wasn't going to let him off the hook just yet. "And you don't remember telling me that I was the most beautiful woman you had ever met and very, very special?"

He groaned. "Oh God! In vino veritas." She didn't appear to recognise the significance of the quotation, and he wasn't about to enlighten her. He shook his head miserably.

"So you _don't_ think I'm special, then?"

"No! Yes! You're twisting my words! You're enjoying this! I know how much you love embarrassing me …" She nodded, smiling happily, and he fell silent for a while. The he said quietly "Of course you're special, but that doesn't make it right. As it is, everyone at the party will know that you left with me and didn't come home last night – and you know what the bush telegraph is like on the island. The Commissioner will have an apoplexy!"

She stared at him incredulously. "The Commissioner? But he and _maman_ have been laying bets about us for months now!"

" _What?"_

"Yes," she continued blithely, "apparently he was convinced from the start that you and I would get together eventually – _maman_ says he's surprised it has taken so long – and as you know he's a man who likes to be proved right!"

Richard was totally stunned by this piece of unexpected news – and not at all pleased to have been the subject of talk and speculation on the part of his boss and Camille's mother. He opened his mouth to protest, but Camille forestalled him. It was time to put him out of his misery.

She leaned forward and the jacket gaped open. Richard swallowed hard and looked away. Amused, she put her hand on his arm.

"Shall I tell you exactly what happened last night?"

He didn't really want to know, but he nodded tensely, balling his fists tightly. He might as well hear the worst. He was sure that at the very least he hadn't distinguished himself, particularly in comparison to the other men she had known, all of whom (he was convinced) were splendid physical specimens more than capable of satisfying the most exacting of divas.

And so she described how she had taken him away from the party before he became more than moderately intoxicated so as to prevent him from doing or saying something more than usually embarrassing. "It's not that you had drunk that much, Richard, but you're not really used to it and so it affects you more than other people." Fortunately she had only been drinking very moderately herself. The party was still in full swing as she drove him home. He had been a little unsteady when he got out of the Defender so she had accompanied him inside the shack. That was when his inhibitions had fallen away and he had told her how beautiful and how special she was.

"You know, you're pretty special, yourself" she had whispered and, holding his face in her hands, she had kissed him on the mouth. It was a gamble; she had not been sure of his response and she was well aware that if she had misjudged the situation it could have ended badly for her. Camille reckoned herself a good judge of character but then again, she had never met anyone quite like Richard, whose depths were almost unplumbable. She was both delighted and relieved therefore when she felt his arms sliding round her and their kiss deepening.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time", she murmured when they finally broke for air, making a mental note to stock up on more rum.

He could hardly believe it. "Really?"

"Mmm hmm … and now I'd like to do it again … just to be quite sure, you understand."

"Well, I was always taught to respect a lady's wishes."

By the time they emerged from their second kiss, his shirt was unbuttoned and her hands were slithering all over his back and chest. A long-suppressed desire was sweeping over them and they were slowly edging towards the bed. Camille's dress buttoned down the front so was easily discarded; Richard's trousers were harder to deal with. Eventually she pushed him onto the bed, dragged them off as he lay back on the pillow and tossed them on the floor with his shirt, shoes and socks. He made a mild and ineffectual protest when she started on his boxers but she took no notice and they soon joined the growing pile of discarded clothing.

"I just need to pop into the bathroom for a minute" she breathed into his ear in between the kisses she was planting all over his chest. "Don't start without me."

"And when I got back from the bathroom", she concluded, "I slipped into bed beside you – and you were fast asleep!"

He stared at her round-eyed. "I was … ? You mean …?"

"I mean nothing happened, Richard. So you have nothing to apologise for. Your precious integrity is intact. Or if you insist on blaming yourself, you can apologise for passing out on me. But in fact, if anyone took advantage it was me. I knew you had drunk too much and it would never have happened under any other circumstances. But I got carried away – I knew I might never get another chance because you're so buttoned up, you never reveal your feelings. I've never met anyone so private before. I could have been waiting for a hundred years and you would never have made a move, would you?"

He barely heard her; he was trying to assimilate what she had said, trying to take in that he had not after all broken any rules, that his career was not finished. A huge wave of relief swept over him.

"Thank God!" he muttered, and buried his head in his hands. After a few moments, Camille came and knelt by his side, laying her hand on his knee.

"You know, all this relief is not doing my self-esteem any good at all! It's hardly flattering, is it?"

It had not occurred to him that she might feel hurt or rejected. "I'm sorry, Camille …" he stuttered, "I didn't mean … um … of course I …"

She cut him off ruthlessly. "Would it have been so terrible?"

"Yes! Well, no, of course not … in some respects … but, you know, the rules …"

"To hell with your rules, Richard! They may well be needed at the Met – and yes, it may surprise you to know that I _can_ actually see the logic – but here in the Caribbean? Haven't you noticed that we do things differently here? That we are far more laid back about life? The Commissioner doesn't care, so why should you? And if you insist on making a martyr of yourself, then I suppose I can't stop you but why should you be allowed to ruin my life too?"

He hadn't thought of that. "Would it …?" he began timidly.

"Almost certainly. I've waited months and months, wondering if you felt the same strange attraction that I did, wondering if there would ever be a chance for us. Well, last night the speculation ended. For once you let the mask slip and I knew that I hadn't been imagining it. Last night it wasn't just the rum – last night you wanted me every bit as much as I wanted you, and if nothing happened it was only because the effect of the alcohol was too strong. You may not have done the deed, Richard, but believe me the intention was there! So you can't pretend any more that you don't have feelings for me, even if it takes more than a little rum for you to overcome your inhibitions!"

"I'm sorry, Camille, I didn't mean to disrespect you. I swear it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't drunk so much of that damned fruit juice. I value your … er … friendship – truly, I do – and I wouldn't deliberately do anything to hurt you. I … um … I hope that we can forget about all this, and I promise it won't happen again. "

"So you're saying you want to go on as before, that you don't feel anything more for me than friendship? That I was imagining it all? Then tell me that last night was just drunken lust, that it was only my body that you wanted, and not anything more, not a real relationship. Convince me of that and I'll be out of here and out of your life for good. I wouldn't want to be any man's sexual object."

He swallowed hard and tried to speak. She knew that the situation was on a knife-edge. Would he clam up once more and put an end to any prospect of something real between them, or would he screw up enough courage to admit the truth?

"Well? Tell me … say it!"

He grimaced. It was an easy way out – just say a few words and he could retreat back to safety behind his castle wall and pull up the drawbridge for good. But was that what he wanted, deep down? Richard Poole was a man not much given to introspection; he did things because he had always done them and rarely questioned his inner motivation. Perhaps he was scared of what he might discover. And here was a perfect opportunity to carry on with his life exactly as it had always been and without any unsettling disruption. And it could not be denied: Camille _had_ unsettled him – quite considerably. By refusing to confront the issue he had been deceiving himself for months now. But somehow he could not bring himself to lie to her, whatever the consequences. Deep down he knew that a real relationship was exactly what he had always wanted and never achieved. And he knew, too, that any other woman would have given up on him years ago. So perhaps, just perhaps, he could learn to live without some of his most cherished rules and principles (and after all, there had to be _some_ benefits to living in the Caribbean).

"Temptation, thy name is woman," he murmured ruefully. " I … I can't bring myself to say that, Camille. It would be a terrible calumny."

She smiled broadly and slowly let her breath out; she had won. "I know. Well, now that we've cleared that up, shall we go back to the point where you were telling me how very special I am? Since no-one will believe that nothing happened last night, it seems a shame to waste the opportunity …"

"I'm afraid I have a terrible memory. You'll need to remind me."

So she slid her arms round his neck and held up her face for their third kiss, which was every bit as satisfactory to her mind as the first two. Since Richard had no recall of the previous evening he had no such comparisons to make but found himself being drawn deeper and deeper into her embrace. A green lizard slithered down the tree, disturbed by the most unusual goings on in his home, and observed the proceedings with an air of total bafflement.

"In broad daylight?" Richard gasped, as her hands slipped under his dressing-gown and began to explore greedily.

"Why ever not? No time like the present. I'm sure Harry is broad-minded enough to handle it."

There was surely a flaw in her argument but he had no time to find or heed it. Before he knew it his dressing-gown had slithered to the floor. He had never before noticed how many buttons there were on his pajama top nor how tricky they were to undo but he somehow succeeded and they collapsed in a heap on the bed. Suddenly Richard tensed.

"What is it? You're not going to fall asleep on me again, are you?"

"No … but … well … it's been so many years, Camille, I hope I can remember …" he muttered anxiously between kisses.

"Don't worry. It will be fine. I'm reliably informed that it's like riding a bike – you never forget."

"But I never had a bike. I always went on the bus."

She paused a moment, then a deep gurgle started in the depths of her throat. Soon she was overcome by giggling, and it was infectious. The tension left him and he started to laugh with her.

"It's one of the things I love the most about you, Richard – you're so not like other men. Well, let's see what a bit of teamwork can achieve. I'm sure that if we work together we'll be able to jog that terrible memory of yours."

As he sank into her warm embrace, Richard discovered that, as he should have known by now, Camille was quite right. And after one disgusted look, Harry scampered back up the tree away from the madness below.


End file.
